As You Wish
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Irene Adler was dead. And my friend Sherlock Holmes refused to eat, sleep, speak, or do anything at all besides stand by the window and compose. Until Molly Hooper braved the steps of our flat, bringing the one thing no one thought he needed: a fairytale.Tag and AU for Scandal in Belgravia
1. Chapter 1

"Irene Adler was dead. And my friend Sherlock Holmes refused to eat, sleep, speak, or do anything at all besides stand by the window and compose. Until Molly Hooper braved the steps of our flat, bringing the one thing no one thought he needed: a fairytale." Tag and AU for _Scandal in Belgravia_

_AN: I've made references to William Goldman's "The Princess Bride" in at least 2 other fics—but the opportunities within those pages for reflection upon other characters is just boundless, so I could not resist. This is the first time, however, I have ventured into _this _particular fandom. I do hope you enjoy—let me know if you do:)_

_VVVVV_

As You Wish

I could not bear it. Not for one more afternoon—I simply could not. My friend Sherlock Holmes, with whom I shared a small, pokey and oddly-furnished London flat, had refused to eat, sleep, speak, or do nearly anything at all besides stand by the frosted window and compose achingly-sad tunes on his violin since Christmas Eve. He wore his pajamas and dressing gown all day and night, declined Mrs. Hudson's efforts to make him sit down and at least have tea; and when his fingers started bleeding from the violin strings he would wander restlessly or listlessly about, lurking by the windows or leaning against corners, staring off and sighing deeply—or viciously barking corrections at whatever television program happened to be on. I could only watch him with something like quiet dread eating at my gut.

It was as if he'd gone mad.

Or—more mad than usual.

I knew what it was like to be disappointed in love. Heartbroken, even. Of course, almost everyone has been there at one time or another. But this—whatever this was that had possessed him—I could not be certain about. I only knew that it had been inflicted by one Irene Adler. She had hijacked Sherlock's attention when the two had first met (in an absolutely unfair fashion, I might add), had driven him to distraction with her constant texting and provocative phone noises, then gotten herself killed. Poor Sherlock had been forced to go down to the morgue and identify her body himself.

Now, I would never speak this aloud, but when I heard of her death, I confess I breathed easier. I had disliked her initially from her description alone, and when I encountered her later I became instantly convinced that she was manipulative, shameless, ruthless, and possibly _the_ most dangerous person my singularly-minded flat-mate could associate with. And with each day that had passed since Christmas, observing his tortured and solitary behavior, I realized more and more that if Sherlock were to feel anything _resembling _love for a woman who was not kind, extraordinarily patient, guileless, faithful and the very essence of goodness—it could destroy him.

But what on earth could I possibly do about _that?_

So, today, I ventured up to him as he stood marking up his music by the wintry light of the window. Mrs. Hudson, stepping across into the kitchen, her shoes tapping, pleasantly commented that she hadn't heard that tune of his before.

"Composing?" I asked him.

Sherlock glanced up at me, disheveled, with dark circles under his pale eyes—but I got the feeling he didn't really see me.

"Helps me think," he muttered, his voice low. He took up his bow again.

"What are you thinking about?" I pressed. He didn't reply.

"Well…" I sighed, finally at a complete loss. "I'm going out."

He still didn't answer. I watched him a moment longer, then turned and headed for my coat.

A shadow moved in the stairwell, and one of the steps creaked. I stopped. Sherlock's yearning violin broke out again, sounding like a very eloquent knife twisting in a wound.

"Hello?" I called, frowning and stepping toward the stairs.

"Hello," came a timid, but cheerful, female voice. "May I…come up?"

"Molly?" I fairly cried. "I…Yes, yes of course! Please, come in."

She stepped into the light, carrying a small bag, and bundled tight in a black coat and scarf. She had half of her long reddish hair pulled up and had let the rest hang loose, which flattered her face much more than the usual side ponytail did; her face was flushed and her eyes brightened by the cold, and she smiled readily in greeting. That moment, two things occurred to me. One: she truly _was _quite pretty—Sherlock, for all his observational prowess, had somehow completely missed that—and two: she must be very brave, to venture here again so soon after Sherlock had humiliated and wounded her at the Christmas party.

"Hello, John," she nodded to me, then glanced past me. "Hello, Sherlock."

I turned to look at him. Of course, he didn't even act as if he knew she was there. Just kept playing—if a little more earnestly. Molly shifted, as if absorbing a blow, then lifted her chin and strengthened her smile.

"It's a lovely day outside for a walk," she commented, returning her attention to me. "A bit brisk, but…sunny."

"Oh, yes. Yes, quite," I said quickly, pained at Sherlock's callousness. Though, why did I still let it surprise me? Molly's face softened as she glanced back and forth between myself and Sherlock, and her eyebrows drew together.

"It's been a hard holiday, hasn't it?" she said, wincing slightly. "Not really fun at all. For anyone."

I heaved another great sigh, and ran a hand through my hair.

"No, you're right. Absolutely right. It hasn't been."

She nodded, serious.

"Yes, I thought so. So I…I wanted to try and do something for you," she shrugged, shyly half smiling. "A little trick I know. It's always worked before. At least—for me."

"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.

"Well, I—"

"John, where are your manners?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, coming back into the sitting room and pointing at Molly. "Take the girl's coat!"

"Oh, sorry!" I jumped forward and helped Molly off with her coat.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Molly said.

"Hello, dear! So nice to see you!"

Molly wore a form-fitting red sweater underneath, and black trousers. I stepped around her to the pegs and hung the coat up, and Mrs. Hudson passed me as I did.

"I know you said you were going out," she said under her breath. "But you really mustn't, not if she's staying."

I faced her, and grimaced.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be the best idea, would it?"

Mrs. Hudson widened her eyes and shook her head.

"Not after the Christmas party," she whispered. "You need to protect this silly girl, John. No telling what he'll say when he's in _this _mood!"

I turned quite ashen, I'm sure. I felt my whole body go cold.

"Right. Quite right." I stepped back around her and into the sitting room. There had been some re-arranging of the furniture during the past few days, done mainly by Sherlock during his restless pacing. He had moved the couch over so it stood behind the table, one armrest up against the wall with the windows. Where the couch had been, an armchair huddled in the far corner. Another chair sat just to my right, beside the door. Molly stood in front of it, watching Sherlock as he played, holding her bag in both hands. Listening to him. I came around her, mustering a smile, and gestured to the chair.

"Please sit down."

"Thank you," she said, and did so.

"So…what have you brought?" I asked over the melancholy music, stepping over to the corner arm chair and settling down into it. Molly opened her mouth.

The bow screeched on the violin strings. I glanced over to see Sherlock swing his bow down and let his violin go limp, his head hanging back.

"Doubtlessly some soup-like concoction she made this morning using a recipe handed down from her grandmother," he droned. "Something including chicken broth or beef bouillon that promises to heal every sickness and soothe every ache but is in fact nothing more than a placebo for the weak-minded."

"No it isn't," Molly countered. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Oh, no? Pray tell, what is it, then?"

"A book."

Sherlock brought his head up again, and stared blackly out the window, lids half open.

"Then I'm certain I have it or have borrowed it or have already thrown it away," he said. "I don't need another book."

"I'm not giving it to you."

I blinked, glanced at her. She gazed steadily at Sherlock. He didn't move. Molly took a breath and reached into the bag. She pulled out a thick paperback, but I couldn't make out the title or the picture on the cover because she turned it over and set it on her lap.

"It's not a very old book, even though it acts like it is," she fondly rubbed the spine.

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"What can _that_ possibly mean?" he demanded—probably not because he couldn't guess, but because he was scornful of her analysis. But she continued.

"Well, you see, the author pretends to have found some old manuscript, and that he is translating the 'good parts' and summarizing the boring parts—when in fact he's making the entire thing up himself. He does it quite cleverly, actually. Builds a good case. I know he had me fooled the first time I read it."

Sherlock snorted. I felt my hackles rise.

"Listen, Sherlock," I snapped. "She's come here to help."

"And how?" he demanded flatly, gesturing in irritation. "Does this marvelous book contain some valuable information I couldn't otherwise obtain? Some insight that hasn't yet occurred to me? Some intelligence that has somehow slipped past the nets of my smart phone, Watson's education and even my _brother's _? Some magic words that will fix all the problems of the universe and set everything straight and level so we can all stop wasting our time?"

A pang shot through my chest. I looked over at Molly.

But there was something different about her today. At the Christmas party, she had been hopeful, delicate and vulnerable. Today, she was braced, collected. And unafraid. As if she was on a mission.

She sat there calmly in a soft beam of sunlight from the window, considering him, and answered.

"No, not at all."

"Why did you bring it, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Because some problems can't be solved," she explained quietly. "And the best we can do is let ourselves be distracted for a little while."

Sherlock's right eyebrow flicked. He said nothing.

"Besides," Molly added. "It's a good story. There's a movie, too. I like them both. Either one cheers me up when I'm feeling poorly. And…" she paused. "The main character sort of reminds me of you."

Sherlock's head tipped toward her—unconsciously, I'm certain. His eyes shifted, and his mouth tightened. Then, he laboriously set his violin and bow down on a chair, and leaned his shoulder against the window frame.

"I don't feel like reading."

"I thought as much," Molly acknowledged. "So I'm going to read it. To you."

Sherlock frowned this time. But didn't speak.

I sank back into my chair, keeping silent, and trying to turn invisible. Which I knew I could do. Of course, I'd instantly leap out of hiding if Sherlock did anything too cruel—but for now I just wanted to see what exactly Molly had in mind.

She turned the book over, carefully opened the battered cover and began flipping through the pages.

"There's a long introduction here," she explained. "Mostly the author trying to convince you of his make-believe story about translating. I think it takes too long, myself. So we'll start with the actual _story _part." She flipped a few more, then settled. She cleared her throat, and took a breath.

"The Princess Bride, by William Goldman."

I suppressed a grin. I had seen the movie made after this book, and loved it—of course, who didn't? But as I considered Sherlock, not a single flicker of recognition crossed his pale face. Molly didn't look at him. Instead, she began to read.

"_The year Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess, either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw._

_ Chocolate."_

I stared at Molly in surprise. She had a wonderful reading voice—musical and careful, expressive and exactly the right volume. And, as I had never read the book, I knew nothing about this Duchess or her marital problems—I had expected money to be Annette's downfall, or another man. Not _chocolate_. I risked a look at Sherlock. He hadn't budged, or changed expression. Molly went on.

_ "Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors._

_ Annette never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Annette, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn't have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren't called 'ulcers.' The medical profession at the time called them 'stomach pains' and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess's grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except this was before Voltaire.)"_

I swallowed my laughter—which was very hard—and fought to maintain my invisible status. Especially when I saw Sherlock turn his head ever so slightly in our direction.

Molly kept reading, chronicling the rise of several other beautiful women and their various falls from perfection, each journey as unpredictable and sometimes silly as the next. With half my attention, I listened. With the other half, I observed Sherlock.

He leaned heavily against the window frame, his arms folded. He blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. For the hundredth time, I noted the dark circles under his eyes. They looked like bruises. I waited for him to interrupt, to say something cutting that would get her to stop this nonsense.

But he didn't.

Molly kept reading for several more pages, her tones pleasant and easy, until she got to the part about the Buttercup who was first mentioned, and how pretty she was becoming, but that she didn't care a thing for it. Sherlock's head hung low, and I was beginning to think that he had fallen asleep standing up.

But then he did something astonishing.

He shuffled forward, heavily climbed over the back of the couch with his long, lanky legs, and sat down at one end of it, near the window.

Molly glanced up to see his movement, her words hitching. But she recovered almost immediately, before the spell could break, and kept reading. Sherlock stared blankly out in front of him, his elbow on the armrest, his fingers draped over his lips. I frowned at him.

Or _was_ it blankly? A slight line marked the skin of his brow, between his eyebrows.

He was concentrating. But on what?

That dreadful Irene again, and what he could have done to save her, or how he ought to be feeling or not feeling about her? Or something to do with Mycroft and one of his requests—or a dozen other puzzles bashing around in that complicated skull of his? My frown deepened. No. If that were so, then Molly's voice and story would be a distraction, and if I knew _one _thing about Sherlock Holmes, it was that he avoided—he _fled from_—distraction. He did not come _closer_ to it.

Molly adjusted the way she was sitting, and kept up the soothing flow of her words. Every now and then, her warm brown eyes would flit up to Sherlock, checking to see that he hadn't dozed off—or wasn't glaring scathingly at her. But he hadn't and didn't.

Gradually, she read about Buttercup, and the Farm Boy named Westley that Buttercup liked to order about. How Westley answered her every request with a simple "As you wish." And then how a countess had looked at Westley with interest, which had suddenly made Buttercup very jealous. So jealous, in fact, that she lost a whole night of sleep, weeping and thrashing around in bed.

At that part, Molly lifted her hand, and rubbed the side of her forehead. The movement caught my attention, and I saw that her hand shook a little. A very little. Sherlock caught it too—but he barely moved his eyes to note it, and didn't speak. Molly stopped for a moment, took another deep breath, then continued to Buttercup boldly marching to Westley's hovel, determined to tell him how she felt.

" '_I love you,' Buttercup said. 'I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you,'"_ Molly read, carefully and smoothly._ " 'but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman ever loved a man, but half an hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know?'"_

"Sorry?"

I twitched at the sound of Sherlock's bass voice. He had lifted his chin off the heel of his hand and turned toward Molly, his brow furrowing, blinking his eyes back into focus. She looked at him, her lips parted.

"What?" she asked.

"My eyes," Sherlock answered. "You said something about my eyes—the seas before a storm. That's what you just said."

Molly blushed scarlet. I bit the inside of my cheek and kept silent.

"I…I was just reading," Molly explained, a little hushed. "That's what Buttercup said about Westley."

"Oh," Sherlock said.

I looked sideways at him.

That tone. Was he—disappointed?

Silence fell for a moment…

"Your eyes aren't at all like that," Molly suddenly ventured.

Sherlock blinked again.

"No?"

She shook her head.

"No. I'd have to say yours are more like the sky," she told him. "In early spring—you know, when it's bright and pale."

Sherlock's expression cleared, and changed. Slight startlement—and a softening around the edges.

"Oh," he said again—much quieter. Molly's fingers tightened on the book as she watched him—and he gazed back at her.

"Tea, anybody?" Mrs. Hudson came in carrying a loaded tray. "I'm not your housekeeper, mind you—but since nobody is going to be a good host around here for this young lady, I'll not have her neglected."

I stood up right away.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, so sorry about that…" I quickly arranged two small tables and a rolling tray, so everybody could still sit where he was, and helped Mrs. Hudson pour out and hand the tea around. Sherlock took his without a word, and said nothing about the biscuits I set on his tray as well. I sat back down and took a cup and saucer for myself, and watched as Molly set the book, open, face down on her tray and began to tuck in to the biscuits.

"Molly," I said, taking a sip. "You really do have a very pleasant story-telling voice."

She giggled, and shrugged.

"Thank you." She took a drink of tea. "I sometimes babysit my little nieces and nephews—they say I can read or tell a story better than their own Mum. And that's saying something, because she was in theatre quite a bit when she was younger. Shakespeare, even." She suddenly stopped, as if catching herself. "Though I'm…I'm not trying to brag…"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked. He picked up his cup, and took a sip of tea.

I almost dropped mine on the floor.

I hadn't seen him eat or drink anything in days. I looked over at Molly. What was going on, here?

Molly finished up her biscuits, drained her tea, and picked up the book again.

"All right, where were we…?"

"'_But ten minutes after that I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know?_" Sherlock reminded her, taking another sip.

"Yes," she said, giving him another quick look before finding her place on the page. "'_Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well they are. How many minutes ago was I? Twenty? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn't matter.' Buttercup still could not look at him. The sun was rising behind her now; she could feel the heat on her back, and it gave her courage. 'I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now than when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something to it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you. Anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. I know I cannot compete with the Countess in skills or wisdom or appeal, and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her. But remember, please, that she is old and has other interests, while I am seventeen and for me there is only you. Dearest Westley—I've never called you that before, have I?—Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley,-darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.' And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done and looked right into his eyes. _

_ He closed the door in her face."_

"He what?" I cried.

Both Molly and Sherlock looked at me.

"Sorry," I said quickly. "I just…Well, that seems rather horrid of him. Doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Molly agreed. Sherlock said nothing—but he picked up one of his biscuits and considered it. I clapped my mouth shut. If Molly just kept reading, he _might _decide to eat something…

Molly kept steadily reading, telling about how Buttercup wept with the full force of a broken heart, then returned to her house—only to have Westley come to her door and tell her that he was leaving. Leaving because of what she said. Because he needed to make money so that he could marry her.

_"'If you're teasing me, Westley, I'm just going to kill you.'_

_ 'How can you even dream I might be teasing?'_

_ 'Well, you haven't once said you loved me.'_

_ 'That's all you need? Easy. I love you. Okay? Want it louder? _I love you_. Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I.'_

_ 'You are teasing now; aren't you?'_

_ 'A little maybe; I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said "Farm Boy do this" you thought I was answering "As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. "I love you" was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.'"_

"Hm," I murmured, smiling to myself. " 'As you wish'…"

"Quiet, John," Sherlock commanded. My eyebrows went up.

"Sorry," I whispered. But I saw Molly smile, too.

_To be continued…_

_Review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Oh, what a wonderful reception this story has gotten! Thank you! I so enjoy your reviews—keep 'em coming!_

_All right, just so everyone who may have missed it will no longer miss it: This story began right when John _would_ have gone outside, met Irene's messenger and been taken to the warehouse to see that she was alive. Only he didn't go, because Molly came. _

_Interesting, hm?_

_Also, I may mix some of the dialogue from the movie in here as well—but since William Goldman wrote the screenplay AND the book, I see no crime in it;)_

_Okay, on with the show!_

_VVVVV_

CHAPTER TWO

Catastrophe.

Or at least—a momentary one.

Westley had been murdered on the high seas by the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Of course, I had known this one was coming. It happened within the first ten minutes of the film. But Sherlock didn't.

He tossed the biscuit he'd been contemplating down on the plate with a clatter, and abruptly stood up. Molly stopped reading. I covered my face with my hand. Couldn't she have just…summarized? Or skipped this part? Or picked a different story altogether? He had been _almost _ about to eat something!

Sherlock swept over to the nearest window, his teeth grinding.

"What is this you're reading me, anyway?" he demanded. "Two people fall madly in love with each other—though now I sincerely doubt the depth of either of their feelings—then he leaves her and dies? What sort of shallow device is that?"

"This isn't the end of the story!" Molly objected, flipping through the rest of the pages. "Look—the book's barely begun!"

Sherlock didn't turn around. I watched him, keeping motionless. Molly gave a short, exasperated laugh.

"When I told you the main character reminded me of you, did you think—Would _you _make a promise to come back and then go off and do something as silly as getting yourself killed by pirates?"

Sherlock paused a moment.

"The Dread Pirate Roberts never leaves any prisoners alive," he growled. "Taking into account what a simple story this is, and that it's following the formula of some sort of folk tale (if a bit satirical), Westley must be dead. What else can be deduced?"

"What, you want me to give it away?" Molly cried, laughing a little again. Sherlock turned back to her.

I watched him worriedly. He looked very pale, his lips gray. I'd seen him go two nights without sleep before—maybe three, once—but this was going on the fifth. I'm sure he'd sneaked some water in that time, but no food or milk or tea or anything else. Besides which, he had gone through—was _going _through—an emotional trauma, try as he might to deny it. My friend was totally exhausted in every way. Westley's "death" was a plot twist, that's all—but in the all-ways-depleted state Sherlock was in, he seemed more inclined to dismiss it totally than see it for what it was, or even over-think it, as was his custom. If Molly had visited yesterday, when he had been violently edgy, nervous and critical, he doubtlessly would have verbally shredded the narration, then physically shredded the book, leaving Molly in tears and me in a fury. Now…

Now, I just didn't think he had the energy for all that.

Molly looked back at Sherlock steadily, unfaltering. I carefully laid a finger against my mouth. Perhaps _she _sensed this about my friend as well. Yet, when people might have taken advantage of his weakness—she softened.

"Don't give up on everything quite yet," she said quietly. "Things might not turn out the way you think."

Sherlock folded his arms. Said nothing. Molly waited, then found her place on the page again. She took a breath, and read out how Buttercup, upon hearing the awful news, went into her room and locked the door, and stayed there for several days. Sherlock watched Molly the whole time, his lips parting once, but he didn't speak. And then she came to the part when Buttercup finally emerged.

_"In point of fact, she never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering. She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She didn't seem to care. _

_ 'You're all right?' her mother asked._

_ Buttercup sipped her cocoa. 'Fine,' she said._

_ 'You're sure?' her father wondered. _

_ 'Yes,' Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. 'But I must never love again.' _

_ She never did."_

Molly paused to turn the page, evidently having reached the end of a chapter. Sherlock's brow furrowed, he stepped back to his corner of the couch and sank down into it, his face sullen and dour. He didn't even look at his tea. My heart sank.

But then, Molly beamed, quite unexpectedly, and started reading in a light voice.

"_Prince Humperdinck was shaped like a barrel. His chest was a great barrel chest, his thighs mighty barrel thighs. He was not tall but he weighed close to 250 pounds, brick hard. He walked like a crab, side to side, and probably if he had wanted to be a ballet dancer, he would have been doomed to a miserable life of endless frustration."_

I snorted on my mouthful of tea, nearly spitting it out. Sherlock gave me a flat "Oh, for heaven's sake," look. I grinned at him. Molly went on.

"_But he didn't want to be a ballet dancer. He wasn't in that much of a hurry to be a king, either. Even war, at which he excelled, took second place in his affections. Everything took second place in his affections. Hunting was his love."_

"Ah," Sherlock breathed, sitting back. "And now we have our villain."

"How do you know?" Molly asked—but her glance twinkled. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly.

"He's obviously unfeeling, selfish, bloodthirsty—not at all meant to be attractive, physically," he explained. "And with an awful name like _Humperdinck_, what choice does he have?"

Molly giggled again.

"Yes, you're right," she nodded.

"Of course I'm right," Sherlock muttered.

"Of course you are," I affirmed. "Even though I knew it before you did."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And how did you pick it out before you'd even _heard his name_?"

"Saw the film," I said frankly. He looked away.

"Cheating."

"Not my fault you never watch anything."

"You want me to continue?" Molly asked.

"Please do," Sherlock rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Watson is annoying me."

I eased back into my chair, relief creeping through me at the fact that he'd been willing to engage in a slight bit of banter, there. It sounded much better than the weepy violin.

Molly, visibly encouraged by the fact that Sherlock had, for some reason or another, decided to become engaged in the story rather than criticize it, kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet up under her, and kept reading.

The story moved quickly, compelling and humorous, with unexpected and witty  
dialogue. And Molly carried us all through Buttercup's engagement to this selfish prince, her kidnapping by three misfits, Vizzini, Fezzik and Indigo Montoya; her encounter with the shrieking eels, and their treacherous climb up the Cliffs of Insanity. In the midst of Indigo Montoya's tragic back story—in which a six-fingered man murdered his father and Indigo vowed revenge—I slowly got up, sneaked between Molly's chair and the end of Sherlock's couch, and ducked into the kitchen. I was hungry—it was mealtime—and so I thought I'd whip up some sandwiches and soup quickly for everyone. The very _last_ thing I wanted to do was send Molly home. Especially since Sherlock hadn't uttered a word of complaintin pages. He just sat there, listening to her, staring at the floor.

I kept an ear tuned in to the story while I cooked as quietly as I could, unable to see the other two except for the few times that I peeked around the kitchen door or through the stairwell door. Molly never tired. In fact, her animation grew when Inigo encountered the Man in Black, and they began an epic duel of both banter and blade.

Finally, I had one tray ready. I'd take it to Molly. Ladies first and all that. Trying not to spill the soup, I cautiously carried it into the stairwell, then turned left to enter the sitting room that way. I stopped.

Molly had stood up. She held the book open in her left hand, and was still reading, but as she did she stepped over to the corner, where a pile of folded blankets lay. She bent and picked one up. I quickly glanced over at Sherlock.

He had turned, stretched his legs out on the couch and leaned back against the armrest, but he had folded his arms tightly over his chest and still looked ashen. But he was watching Molly. Attending to the story, yes, but watching her.

"_Inigo never panicked—never came close," _she read. "_but he decided some things very quickly, because there was no time for long consultations, and what he decided was that although the man in black was slow in reacting to moves behind trees, and not much good at all amidst boulders, when movement was restricted, yet out in the open, where there was space, he was a terror. A left-handed black-masked terror."_

Molly, not taking her eyes from the book, stepped over to Sherlock's couch, shook out the blanket, and started casually draping it over his legs—as well as one can with one hand. My mouth fell open. But she kept going with the story.

" '_You are most excellent,' he said. His rear foot was at the cliff edge. He could retreat no more. _

_ 'Thank you,' the man in black replied. 'I have worked very hard to become so.'_

_ 'You are better than I am,' Inigo admitted._

_ 'So it seems. But if that is true, then why are you smiling?'_

_ 'Because,' Inigo answered, 'I know something you don't know.'_

_ 'And what is that?' asked the man in black._

_ 'I'm not left-handed.'"_

Sherlock stared up at Molly, stunned, as she covered his feet, then pulled the blanket up to his midsection. His hands came up, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Here, tuck it in there," Molly muttered as an aside, pointing to his right. "Don't catch cold—it's drafty."

Sherlock's mouth opened, but no sound came out. I almost let go of my tray. Molly went back to reading, and walked back to her chair.

"_And with those words, he all but threw the six-fingered sword into his right hand and the tide of battle turned."_

Sherlock's mouth moved.

"Thank you,"—but he still made no sound. And Molly never saw it because her back was turned. She then sat back down, and kept on narrating the fast-paced fight. I closed my gaping mouth, and stepped out into the parlor. Sherlock twitched when he saw me, as if he had forgotten all about me. I came round and set the dinner tray down in front of Molly.

"Oh, thank you, John," she halted the story to smile up at me. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome—"

"You mustn't interrupt her, John," Sherlock ordered urgently. "Can't you see this is a matter of life and death?"

"Certainly, sorry," I nodded, and darted back into the kitchen, my head spinning. I paused on the threshold, and glanced back over my shoulder at them, baffled.

The tea kettle shrieked. I jerked, then attended to it, hurrying over to the stove to pour it into the pot. I reached out…

My hand paused mid air.

Sherlock's phone, which lay on the counter, had started to vibrate. I squinted at the screen.

_Mycroft_

I hesitated, then looked back through the door toward my two friends. My jaw clenched.

Something was happening in there.

Something delicate, something Mrs. Hudson and I could never replicate—something brought on by the combination of a quiet, case-less afternoon, Sherlock's weariness, the unexpectedly-gripping story, and Molly's sweet voice, hands and face.

I'd be hanged if I let Mycroft interrupt it.

I gritted my teeth, knowing Sherlock would kill me if he knew I was doing this…

And shut off his phone. I poured the water into the pot, and took out another tray—Sherlock's this time.

So now the man in black had won the duel and run off, and caught up with Fezzik, Vizzini and Buttercup. Sherlock paid no attention to me at all as I set his tray down, went back and retrieved my own. I finally got to sit down again, realizing that Molly was reading about Prince Humperdinck's pursuit of the kidnappers, deducing their movements by the evidence they left behind.

Sherlock absently reached out, and picked up one of his sandwich squares.

I held my breath.

Molly paused.

"Wait," she said. "Wait. Can you…not eat yet?"

Sherlock stopped.

I _almost_ hit the ceiling.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"I've been reading for almost four hours," she sighed, sounding a little hoarse. She got up, walked over to him, and held out the book. "Would you please take a turn while I eat a little?"

Taken aback, he looked from the book, up to her, at the book, then up at her again.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Listen, I'll do it," I interrupted. "You two go ahead and eat."

"Why can't I read it?" Sherlock asked me, a deadly tone entering his voice.

"I didn't say you couldn't—"

"Then why can't I?"

"I didn't say—"

"I'll read it," he told her firmly.

"Thank you." She handed it to him, and pointed to the spot on the page. "Just there."

"Yes, I know."

She sat back down, and started to eat her soup. I ground my teeth. So close!

Sherlock frowned, focusing, re-settled himself, and held up the book.

"_There had been a rope tied around a giant oak,"_ he began, his deep voice smooth and precise._ "The bark at the base was broken and scraped, so probably whoever first reached the top untied the rope and whoever was on the rope at that moment was three hundred feet from the peak and somehow survived the climb. A great jumble of footprints caused him trouble. It was hard to ascertain what had gone on. Perhaps a conference, because two sets of footprints seemed to lead off while one remained pacing the cliff edge. Then there were two on the cliff edge…"_

Sherlock read out all of Humperdinck's deductions while Molly and I ate—and as he did, his words began to come more quickly, more rushed. He sat up a little bit, he brought the book closer to his face. Then, once or twice, I caught him forgetting about us to hurriedly read ahead. But when Molly would lean toward him expectantly as she chewed, he would glimpse her, stop it, and read out again as he should. I stifled another grin. Give him a mysterious masked persona, a technically-correct and breathtaking swordfight, a few clever deductions and he was done for.

The story had sucked him in.

He read all the way through to the man in black's encounter with Fezzik—who, miraculously, he defeated, but thankfully he left the gentle giant alive. I finished off my meal and set my tray aside, hiding my secret delight at the coming section. The man in black's defeat of the silly and cocky Vizzini had always been my favorite part of the film—I couldn't wait to see what Sherlock made of it.

"_ 'So,'"_ Sherlock read Vizzini's words. " '_It is down to you, and it's down to me.'"_

"All right, I'm finished," Molly suddenly announced. "Sorry, I tried to hurry."

Sherlock's head came up.

"What?"

Molly got to her feet and crossed the room. She held out her hand.

"My turn to read, your turn to eat."

"Oh…kay," Sherlock reluctantly relinquished the book. She smiled disarmingly at him, took it, and returned to her place. Sherlock's eyes flashed. She sat down, then gestured to his tray.

"You should eat."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock snapped. Molly turned her head away sharply, as if stung. She was quiet for a long time. I didn't dare move. Then, she reached over, found her glass of milk and took a drink, then looked down at her watch.

"Oh, I—I didn't realize what time it was," she murmured. "I'd better go—"

"_No," _Both Sherlock and I protested—I practically jumped out of my chair. She instantly stopped. But she didn't look at either of us.

"I just…I don't want to over stay my welcome…" she said, her voice still low.

"That isn't possible," Sherlock said.

My head came around. He didn't look at me—just at her. His brow knitted.

"I truly am not hungry," he said. "But that doesn't have to do with you. Or your story."

"It has to do with John," she answered, meeting his eyes but keeping her head low. "He made that meal for you. The least you can do is eat a little of it."

Sherlock swallowed. He glanced over at me. I just pursed my lips and made a mental analysis of the window frame. Sherlock cleared his throat. And the next moment, he had turned toward the tray, picked up his spoon and began eating the soup. Silence fell…

Then Molly's lilting voice filled it.

" '_Let me explain,' the man in black said._

_ 'There's nothing to explain,' Vizzini assured him. 'You're trying to kidnap what I've rightfully stolen.'"_

_ 'Then perhaps an arrangement can be reached?'_

_ 'There will be no arrangement. And you're killing her.'"_

Molly read the trick with Vizzini and the poisonous powder with such flourish—I knew it was one of her favorite parts, too.

Or perhaps she started to sense Sherlock sharpening.

He ate all of his food. Hurriedly, absently, as if he was doing it to get it out of his way. And then—

"_'You're just stalling now,' the man in black accused._

_ 'You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?' Vizzini shrieked. 'You've beaten my giant, which means you're exceptionally strong, so you could have put the poison in your own goblet trusting in your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. _But _you've also bested my Spaniard. Which means you must have studied, and in studying you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!'"_

"He's right," Sherlock cut in, eating his last bit of sandwich. "He's right—he's absolutely right."

"What?" Molly looked up.

"He can't choose either," Sherlock took a drink of water, then folded his arms. "There is poison in both."

"How would you know that?" Molly asked.

"His logic is a bit strange, but it's sound," Sherlock answered.

"But how could it be in both? Wouldn't the man in black die, too?"

"He must have developed a resistance to it," Sherlock said with easy finality. "It's a miniature Xanatos gambit—no matter what happens, he wins."

Slowly, Molly smiled at him. Sherlock cocked his head.

"What is it?"

"You're too clever for your own good, you know."

His eyebrows flicked.

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you."

And she laughed and shook her head.

"Yes, I'm sure you are."

And Sherlock looked at her. Right into her eyes.

Her smile faded—but something captivating lit the edges of Sherlock's hardened countenance.

It was then that I was struck by a most brilliant idea.

I eased up out of my chair. It squeaked. The two of them looked at me, but I didn't look back. I grabbed another blanket, moved back to my chair and covered myself, then leaned my head sideways against one of the wings.

"Please continue," I urged. "Don't mind me. Just keeping warm."

"Okay," Molly said—Sherlock had already returned his full attention to her. I smirked to myself. I wasn't in the least bit tired, but I _would_ do this.

I was going to pretend to fall asleep.

My corner was dark, and getting darker as the day wore on. Neither of them could see me that well if they weren't looking right at me. Therefore, I didn't have to close my eyes all the way.

Sherlock clearly had gotten fully absorbed in the story. And Molly was proving stronger against his pushbacks than I had anticipated. Now, I wanted to see what would happen if I left them "alone."

Because I was certain something would.

_To be continued…_

_Please, please review! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks so much for your lovely reviews! This is so fun to write for all of you._

_I know this chapter is short, but I'm well through the one after it, so it shan't be a long wait! It's just how the story has divided itself…_

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV_

CHAPTER THREE

I am a genius.

Of course, no one else would believe that—especially my _super_-genius friend over there. And he especially wouldn't believe it if I just sat there and kept quiet. But, if I leaped up from my chair, jumped about on the rug and shouted how _much _of a genius I actually was…Well. I would prove myself to be an idiot who _ruined_ his only stroke of genius. So I had to keep utterly still and silent. I couldn't even _smile_. It was very difficult.

Especially when Sherlock said what he said.

When it first came out of his mouth, I almost sat up straight, which would have destroyed it all. Thankfully, I'd trained myself better than that (combat practice, mostly), so I held myself stiffly in place. I thought at first that I _hadn't _heard what I heard. Apparently, though, so did Molly.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked again. "Over there, by the door." He gestured to it. "I know that a particularly wicked draft comes through there most evenings."

"I'm…No, I'm fine," she shivered, wrapping one arm around herself.

"Really, don't lie, Molly, you're very bad at it."

"Oh," she murmured, her glance shifting away from his. He paused.

"Molly," he said again, lowering his tone. "Really. How could that possibly be an insult?"

She met his eyes. And half-smiled.

"Come," Sherlock said, beckoning swiftly. "Come, get away from that door."

"Where shall I…?" she asked, bewildered.

"Pick up one of those blankets," he pointed. "Come here and sit at that end of the couch. I can't possibly use all of it."

She half rose out of the chair.

"Are you sure—"

"Hurry up, I'm in suspense." He snapped his fingers. She hopped up, retrieved the last blanket, then hesitated toward the couch. Sherlock sat up more, bending his blanketed knees so his feet were out of her way. Molly stood there. He looked up at her, and raised his eyebrows.

"The woman has been kidnapped again by someone potentially far worse than all three of the others combined," he reminded her. "Don't make me take the book from you."

"'Course, sorry," Molly chuckled nervously, and sat down. She spread out the blanket over herself, tucking her feet under again, and picked up the book. Sherlock pressed his palms together, and touched his fingertips to the underneath of his jaw—a tell-tale sign that he was deeply focused. I saw that Molly recognized it too, and she quickly started reading the conversation between Buttercup and her new captor, the man in black.

" '_I know who you are,' Buttercup declared. 'You're the Dread Pirate Roberts. Admit it!'_

_ 'With pride!' he bowed. 'What can I do for you?'"_

"Wait—" Sherlock reached out a hand—almost touched her arm. She jumped. He stared off for an instant, then at her.

"What?" she gasped. He paused a long moment, his attention drifting.

"The Dread Pirate Roberts," he mused, his hand lowering. "Interesting."

"Yes," Molly agreed, a little breathless.

"What would _he _want with her?" Sherlock wondered to himself. "Ransom? But if he were such a successful pirate, why would he bother with that? And if he were the captain, why would he risk his own life three times, and then again when the prince inevitably catches them? He wouldn't—he would send some of his men. Unless—" Abruptly, Sherlock straightened—and caught Molly's gaze. "Unless."

She looked back at him…

And smiled a little.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Quickly, go on, go on," he urged, sitting up further, unconsciously edging toward her.

"Oh, good heavens!" Mrs. Hudson cried, stepping up the stairs and into the apartment, rubbing her own arms. "It is ice cold in here! Why hasn't John lit a fire?"

"He's fallen asleep," Molly said, twisting to see the other lady.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're interrupting something of extreme importance," Sherlock said cuttingly, frowning away from her.

"_This _is of extreme importance," Mrs. Hudson countered, hurrying over to the hearth, bending down, building a fire and lighting it. "Everyone in here will freeze to death otherwise!"

Soon, a fire blazed, lighting up a good portion of the room.

"Oh, here dearest," Mrs. Hudson came over, slid a table closer to Molly and carried a lamp over to it, then turned it on. "You'll go blind by this poor light."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson—really," Molly squeezed her hand and gave her such a sweet smile—and Mrs. Hudson returned it, and kissed Molly on the forehead.

Sherlock suddenly watched the two women with riveted attention.

Mrs. Hudson trundled out, Molly gazing gently after her. Then she turned back around and took a breath.

"Okay, where were we—"

" '_What can I do for you?'" _Sherlock prompted.

"Yes," Molly nodded. "Yes, '_What can I do for you?'_

_'You can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces,' Buttercup glared at him._

_ 'Tut tut,' he shook his head. 'Hardly complimentary Your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?'_

_ She lifted her chin._

_ 'You killed my love.'_

_ 'Tis possible. I kill a lot of people,' he smirked. 'Who was this love of yours? Another prince like this one? Ugly, rich, scabby?'_

_ 'No, a farm boy. Poor,' Buttercup shot back. 'Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sea after a storm.'"_

Molly reflexively smiled up at Sherlock. He was already watching her face. She gathered herself, and continued.

"'_On the high seas your ship attacked—and the Dread Pirate Roberts never takes prisoners.'_

_ 'Can't afford to make exceptions,' Roberts shrugged. 'Word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft, then people begin to disobey you and then it's nothing but work, work, work, all the time!'_

_ 'You mock my pain!' Buttercup cried._

_ 'Life is pain, Highness,' he answered back. 'Anyone who says differently is selling something.' _

_ Buttercup turned away. _

_ 'I remember this farm boy of yours, I think,' Roberts mused. 'This would be what, five years ago? Does it bother you to hear?'_

_ 'Nothing you can say will upset me,' Buttercup said firmly._

_ 'He died well. That should please you,' he recalled. 'No bribe attempts or blubbering. He simply said "Please. Please, I need to live." Twas the "please" that caught my memory. I asked him what was so important for him. "True Love," he replied. And then he spoke of a woman of surpassing beauty and faithfulness—I can only assume he meant you. You should bless me for destroying him before he found out what you really are.'_

_ Buttercup shot to her feet and whirled on him._

_ 'And what am I?'_

_ 'Faithfulness, madam, your enduring faithfulness,' he snapped. 'Now tell me truly—when you found out he was gone, did you get engaged to your prince that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?'_

_ 'You mocked me once, never do it again!' Buttercup's eyes flashed. 'I _died_ that day.'_

_ Before Roberts could reply, the sound of horses' hooves resounded on the opposite hilltop. Roberts spun to see them. Buttercup bared her teeth._

_ 'You can die too, for all I care.' _

_ And she shoved him off the hill._

_ But as he tumbled down the grassy expanse, he called after her._

_ 'As…you…wish.'_

"It is him, then," Sherlock murmured, his voice at its deepest. "I knew it was."

"I told you," Molly smiled. "See? He could never be silly enough to get killed by pirates."

"Yes, you did tell me," Sherlock admitted. And again, he fell silent, regarding her. But Molly didn't shy away this time—even though he sat a great deal closer. She gazed back at him.

_He _cleared his throat, and looked somewhere else.

I bit back a chuckle.

"So, what happens next?" Sherlock asked, drawing in a bracing breath.

"Well," Molly glanced down at the book, tilting it toward the lamp. "The author sort of…skips it."

Sherlock frowned.

"What? Skips what?"

"The…The…Them getting back together. Reuniting," Molly said, shrugging one shoulder—and I was certain she was blushing again. "He summarizes. Says they deserve some privacy."

"Privacy?" Sherlock spat. "They're characters in a book. They don't need privacy. Why, what are they doing?"

"Kissing," Molly answered softly. "Nothing…Nothing indecent. But kissing and probably…crying and…" She swallowed. "You know. They haven't…Haven't seen each other in five years. I can imagine well enough, I think. What I'd…" she trailed off. Swallowed.

Sherlock studied every movement of her face.

She shifted.

"You know, I've always wondered," she started. "Why the man in black—Westley—said those things to her."

"What things?" Sherlock asked.

"Those cruel things," she said. "About her being unfaithful, getting engaged to the prince so quickly. All that."

"I imagine he was testing her," Sherlock replied.

"What do you mean?" Molly adjusted her blanket.

"He had promised her he would come back," Sherlock said. "And when he did, he found her engaged to someone who is clearly a brute and a pig, but he has money. He was probably rather annoyed."

"Annoyed?" Molly repeated, baffled. "Really? Just…annoyed?"

"Well…" Sherlock winced slightly, cleared his throat again. "Perhaps..."

"Terrified?" Molly supplied quietly. Sherlock reluctantly looked at her.

"Perhaps," he murmured. Molly nodded.

"Yes, that makes sense. That he would test her, I mean. She's very beautiful and all that, but…What good is beauty if there's no heart there, you know?"

Sherlock looked at her sharply.

He waited.

She shifted again, looking off, clearly remembering.

"My dad used to say…" she began. "In the end, we'll all get old and ugly and stupid and bent over, and lose our teeth and our hearing and everything…" She giggled softly. "So if we're…you know, good-looking and brilliant when we're young, that's fine, but…It shouldn't be what really matters. It's how we…How we make people feel. If we make them feel good or bad, happy or angry or inspired or frustrated. And it's about…well, whether someone will be there for you, in the end, when you need them. You know?"

Sherlock's eyes had never left hers.

And in the ensuing silence, as she waited for a reply, something like stunned realization slowly washed across his face.

"Molly," he whispered.

"What?" she said, just as quietly, but confused.

Sherlock swallowed, then swallowed again. And when he spoke, his voice was not altogether steady.

"Get me John's phone."

"What—where is it?" Molly asked, pushing the blanket off and standing.

I had to grit my teeth.

_Wait_, I told myself. _Just wait_…

"On the kitchen table."

Molly went into the kitchen. I heard some shuffling…

She came back, holding my phone.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Look at the contacts list. Find the name _Mycroft_." Sherlock's eyes were unfocused. His right hand closed into a fist.

"Okay," Molly said, doing as she was told. "I found him. Now what?"

"Text him," Sherlock said quietly. "He'll believe it is coming from John—he'll do it right away if it's John."

"Do what?" Molly wondered. Sherlock looked up at her.

"Text him this: 'Come at once. I have found something you want.'"

_To be continued…_

_Review!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Ah, the last chapter! But, since this was originally only supposed to be a oneshot…haha;)_

_For this whole section, I listened to Julie Fowlis sing "Tha Mo Ghaol Air Aird A' chuain". Give it a try—it's gorgeous._

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV_

CHAPTER FOUR

What was he doing? I had no idea what he was doing.

But, as confused as I was, I _made_ myself stay still.

For the first time in ages, Sherlock seemed calm and rational again. And he hadn't leaped up and started pacing, hadn't insulted Molly, hadn't even looked toward his violin or his phone…

But _what _did he want Mycroft for?

"Come, sit back down," Sherlock invited, beckoning to Molly. "He won't arrive for a few minutes."

"Okay," Molly said, brow furrowing. She set my phone down on the little side table, pushed the blankets around, curled up in the corner of the couch again and covered herself.

"All right, so…" Sherlock took a breath, and visibly re-focused his attention. "So what happens next, then?"

"Erm…" Molly flipped the book back open, found the place, and flashed a smile at him. "The Fire Swamp."

"Fire _Swamp?" _Sherlock frowned. "Those two things don't usually go together."

"No, they don't," Molly smiled. "But it's not…_actually_…your run-of-the-mill swamp."

"Do go on."

So she did. Buttercup and Westley, after both tumbling down the hill, hurried along until they could dart into one of the most ancient, unpleasant and snarled forests a person could imagine. Sherlock did not interrupt once as they encountered the Flame Spurts, the deadly Lightning Sand (I could _swear _he held his breath through that part, just to prove to himself he could do it as well as Westley), and finally the battle with the ROUS's—Rodents Of Unusual Size. Then, at long last, the two lovers made it out _alive_—a feat never before accomplished by anyone else.

Noise at the outside door.

Sherlock and Molly both turned toward it.

Voices.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, followed by a black-suited Mycroft.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson entered happily. "Your brother's come to see how you are."

Mycroft entered the room and cast about it, arching one eyebrow. Sherlock just looked flatly at him.

"Interesting," Mycroft commented, clasping his hands behind his back. "I see you've driven poor Dr. Watson to exhaustion."

"Molly," Sherlock cut in. "May I present my brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Miss Molly Hooper."

Both of Mycroft's eyebrows went up now as he stared at his brother. Molly put out her hand to Mycroft.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly.

"Ah. Yes. The pleasure is mine," Mycroft reached out and took her hand—and I could _almost _be certain I saw a _semblance _of an actual smile on his face. Just a _semblance_, mind you.

"Do you mind if I awaken Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked. "I just received a text message from him."

"I sent that," Sherlock said.

"I wondered," Mycroft admitted.

"I knew you'd come more quickly if it was from John," Sherlock said.

"Now why in the world would that be true?" Mycroft sneered.

"Do you want it or not?"

"That depends. You haven't told me what 'it' is, yet."

"Go to the chair by the fireplace," Sherlock pointed to it but didn't look. "My jacket. Left inside pocket."

Mycroft stood where he was for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, he stepped over, picked up the coat, and dug in the pocket.

Molly watched it all curiously. So did I.

Mycroft withdrew a shiny black smart phone, and held it up. I saw it with absolute clarity.

I stopped breathing.

Irene's phone.

It was Irene Adler's phone.

Mycroft turned slowly to his brother.

"Is this—?"

"It is," Sherlock said, watching his own fingers rub back and forth against his thumb.

"And what do you want me to do with it?"

"I don't care what you do with it," Sherlock said flippantly. "And I don't care to _know_ what has been done with it, either. I don't want it. Get it out of here."

"Really," Mycroft said, his eyes mere slits now. "Are you trying to pull something here or are you—"

"No, Mycroft, I'm much too tired for that at the moment," Sherlock sighed. "And I'm otherwise engaged. You do want it, am I correct?"

"Yes—"

"Then take it and be off. I don't want to look at it."

Mycroft stood, eyes fixed on him, for what seemed like an age.

Then, he hefted the phone, put it in his own pocket, and lifted his chin.

"Very well," he said. "Thank you." He looked down at Molly, and attempted another smile. "Good day, Miss Hooper. Very nice to meet you."

"Thank you, sir," Molly answered, obviously realizing that no one was going to fill her in.

"Give Dr. Watson my regards," Mycroft said.

"Go away," Sherlock ordered. Mycroft cleared his throat, dipped his head, turned, and left.

"You really ought to be nicer to your brother," Mrs. Hudson hissed as she passed by the couch and followed Mycroft down the stairs. Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"Why should I?" he asked. "He's pretentious, overbearing, sarcastic, manipulative and altogether unbearable. I haven't been able to stand him during the entirety of our acquaintance."

"So?" Molly shrugged. "We're nice to _you_."

Sherlock's head came around.

But Molly's bright eyes regarded him with a shy, teasing look that would have disarmed anyone. Sherlock took a breath, straightened, and turned away in his most aloof manner.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.

Molly grinned.

And I started breathing again. Although—I confess I had almost had a heart attack in the interim.

He had given up _her phone_.

Just like that. Called his brother over and handed it to him, as if it was no more than a borrowed book or an old jacket he didn't want anymore.

_What _had caused _that?_

Something Molly had said, or did? Or some miraculous undercurrent in the story?

Or both?

I couldn't fathom it. Couldn't even believe it. But the wonder and amazement inside me were growing with powerful pressure.

I listened. And I watched.

"Okay," Molly said, finding her place again. "So…We're out of the Fire Swamp."

Sherlock paused—and finally spoke.

"Indeed," he murmured.

I let out a breath. It shook. But neither of them noticed.

"Keep going?" Molly asked. Sherlock regarded her indignantly.

"Is that the end of the story?"

"Well, no—"

"Then of course you must keep going," he chided. "Or I really will snatch that book from you, you know."

"No you won't," Molly said, pulling it closer to her. "You wouldn't dare do that."

His eyes blazed.

"Oh, I wouldn't?"

She quickly shook her head.

"I shouldn't let you."

He leaned closer to her.

"You wouldn't have a choice."

She lifted her head haughtily.

"It is my book."

"Irrelevant."

"It is not irrelevant," she retorted. "I shan't read if I don't want to."

"You started this whole thing."

"_I _know how the story goes," she said. "I'll only go on if you say please."

He stopped—though his tall frame still leaned toward her. His eyes narrowed, just like Mycroft's had.

"What is this?" he demanded, his voice low. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything," she said lightly. "But you must say please."

He looked at her sideways.

"I've never taken you for a dictator," he remarked.

She just smiled.

And his gaze flicked all over her face—her forehead, her eyes, her mouth. Back to her eyes.

"Very well," he finally said. "Please, Miss Hooper. Continue."

I was inches away from leaping up and cheering.

She had taught him to say _please! _His mother and father and older brother had failed miserably—he had doubtlessly been an impossibly-headstrong child—and all other attempts made by every other human being had been terrible failures. Certainly, he had used the _word _before, in turn of phrase or to top off a sentence—but never with true sincerity as he asked for something important—not that I had heard.

Until this evening. This miraculous evening.

Containing my excitement was getting very, _very _difficult for me. Very.

"All right," Molly murmured, quietly beaming. "Since you asked so prettily."

And she found her place again, and began to read.

Darkness gathered into the room, leaving me in complete shadow. The fire crackled softly and sleepily, and the lamp on the little table cast warm, subdued light over Sherlock and Molly as the story wound on. She had turned to face him, and they sat in mirrored positions—though Sherlock sat nearer the middle of the couch, closer to her.

Buttercup and Westley, though they had escaped the Fire Swamp, were quickly captured by Humperdinck and the six fingered man, Count Rugen. Buttercup was spirited back to the castle, and Westley was taken to the depths of Humperdinck's Zoo of Death, to be strapped to Count Rugen's life-sucking torture device. I saw the skin around Sherlock's eyes tighten as Molly read out one of the grueling torture sessions.

But then, when they reached the part where Buttercup confronted Humperdinck, refusing to marry him—Molly sighed, and let the book droop.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"I can't go on anymore," Molly croaked. "My voice is done up."

"Oh," Sherlock said—then paused, as if uncertain. "Well, are you…Do you not wish to continue?"

"Can you read for a while?" she asked, holding the book out to him. "I do like these next parts."

Sherlock took it from her, inadvertently scooted even closer—toward the lamp and toward Molly—and tilted the pages to the light.

_"Humperdinck screamed toward her then, ripping at her autumn hair, yanking her from her feet and down the long curving corridor to her room, where he tore that door open and threw her inside and locked her there and started running for the underground entrance to the Zoo of Death and down he plunged, giant stride after giant stride, and when he threw the door of the fifth-level cage open even Count Rugen was startled at the purity of whatever the emotion was that was reflected in the Prince's eyes. The Prince moved to Westley. 'She loves you,' the Prince cried. 'She loves you still and you love her, so think of that—think of this too: in all this world, you might have been happy, genuinely happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say, but you could have had it, and so, I would think, no one will ever suffer a loss as great as you' and with that he grabbed the dial and pushed it all the way forward and the Count cried, 'Not to twenty!' but by then it was too late; the death scream had started."_

Sherlock fell silent. Molly propped her elbow on the back of the couch, then leaned the side of her head on her hand. Sherlock lifted his eyes to her.

"He's going to die."

Molly didn't say anything.

"Is he going to die?" Sherlock demanded—though his voice stayed soft. Molly was silent just a little longer, before nodding.

Sherlock said nothing for a very long moment.

"Why…" he tried. "Why did you read this to me?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. His gaze sharpened, focused, fixed on her.

"Why?" he asked again. "Why bring me all this way—he cheated death countless times—only to have him killed by this fool in a pit where she can't find him?"

Molly reached out her hand and gently flicked the cover, smiling crookedly.

"Trust me," she said hoarsely. "Keep going."

Sherlock didn't move. Molly gazed up at him.

"Go on," she murmured. "You'll see. Promise."

Sherlock didn't do anything for several moments. Finally, though, he returned his eyes to the page, took a breath, and kept reading.

Reading, and reuniting us with Inigo and Fezzik, and telling of Inigo's learning of the six-fingered-man's location (in the castle, with the Prince!) and their needing the Man in Black to break in and complete Inigo's revenge. He read through their adventures through the Zoo of Death, and finally recovering Westley's body. They took him, then, to a hut where an eccentric ex-Miracle Man lived—one who used to work for Prince Humperdinck. Unfortunately, though Miracle Max admitted that Westley was only "_mostly _dead and not _all _dead," he could do nothing for them.

"_'I'm sorry, I never change my mind once it's made up, good-by, take your corpse with you.'_

'Liar! Liar!' _shrieked suddenly from the now open trap door._

_ Miracle Max whirled. 'Back, Witch—' he commanded._

_ 'I'm not a witch, I'm your wife—' she was advancing on him now, an ancient tiny fury—'and after what you've just done I don't think I want to be _that _anymore—''_

Molly started laughing—_very_ hoarsely, but enough that she had to cover her mouth.

"What?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"The way you're reading it…" Molly gasped.

"What's wrong with it?"

She shook her head, grinning.

"You're so…So…It's not right. So serious. You have to read it like…Like this…" She pulled the book back from him. " '_I'm not a witch, I'm your wife!'" _she croaked. "_And after what you've just done, I don't think I want to be _that _anymore!"_

Her voice broke so badly—and squeaked like it belonged to a thousand-year-old-woman. She covered her mouth again, and giggled at herself.

And Sherlock—

At the sight of him, all the breath left me.

An accidental expression came over his face—soft and bright and fathomless. Directed entirely at Molly. And the best word I can use to describe it is _affectionate. _

Although I knew that was impossible.

It couldn't be possible.

But there it was. Right in front of me, and plain as day.

"Nonsense," Sherlock muttered, a small smile marking his mouth. "Give that back to me."

She giggled again, and let him tug the book out of her hands. His eyes lingered on her face for a second before he began the narration again.

Miracle Max finally agreed to help, with a magic pill that would bring Westley back to life.

An unmistakable—though minute—show of relief crossed Sherlock's face.

Inigo and Fezzik brought Westley back from death, but though he could speak, he could barely move any of his limbs yet. Using a few clever tricks, and under the guise of being the Dread Pirate Roberts and his gang, the trio forced and then sneaked their way into the castle—

Then, Inigo came across Count Rugen, the six-fingered man.

But instead of standing and fighting, Rugen fled.

And Inigo chased him.

Now, Molly was the one leaning toward Sherlock, listening raptly. Sherlock read out deliberately, with precise feeling and great intensity as the villain and the hero darted through the castle, weaving down corridors…

Inigo, running with all his speed, rounded a corner—

And Rugen threw a knife.

It struck Inigo in the gut.

Inigo fell back against the stone wall.

Molly flinched—passed a hand over her eyes, then pressed her fingertips to her lips. Sherlock frowned hard.

I tried not to grimace, remembering that part in the film. I _hated_ that part.

Sherlock hesitated, glanced up at Molly—doubtlessly thinking of demanding again what on _earth_ she had been thinking of, leading him on about Westley only to have _Inigo_ die…!

But apparently he thought better of it. He just remained very still, considered her expression (which gave nothing away) drew in a breath, and kept reading.

_"'You must be that little Spanish brat I taught a lesson to all those years ago…'"_

I could sense Sherlock heating—saw the muscles in his strong jaw working when he paused.

The Six-Fingered-Man had made him angry.

He read now with fever as Inigo's mind battled with his weakening body—how he called up to the forefront all of the lessons his former masters had hammered into him. How he reached down and _pulled _the dagger out of his own stomach. How he pushed his fingers in and tightened down on the bloody wound.

Molly's hands closed to fists—Sherlock tilted even closer to her, unconsciously, and his rapid, earnest words burned.

_"Power was flowing up from Indigo's heart to his right shoulder and down from his shoulder to his fingers and then into the great six-fingered sword and he pushed off from the wall then, with a whispered, '…hello…my name is…Inigo Montoya; you killed…my father; prepare to die.' _

_ And they crossed swords._

_ The Count went for the quick kill, the inverse Bonetti. _

_ No chance._

_ 'Hello…my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father…prepare to die…'"_

I could almost hear the battering clash of blades, feel the furious, repeated words "_Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya—you killed my father—prepare to die!"_ reverberating off the castle walls. Sherlock's voice built, Molly's eyes went wide, and the duelists flashed back and forth in our minds—Inigo all the time beating the Six Fingered Man back and back and _back_.

And then—

Inigo caught the upper hand.

He knocked Rugen's weapon away and sliced him on the left cheek.

" '_Offer me money,' he ordered, pointing his sword at Rugen's face._

_ 'Yes,' Rugen whispered._

_ 'Power too—promise me that!' He slashed Rugen's right cheek._

_ 'All that I have and more. Please!'_

_ 'Offer me everything I ask for.'_

_ 'Anything you want.'_

_ Inigo lunged forward, and plunged his blade through Rugen's chest._

_ 'I want my father back, you son of a—'"_

Sherlock stopped. Glanced up at Molly. Cleared his throat.

She smiled softly at him.

And he read ahead. Silently, just to himself. And just for a moment.

I knew he was reading the bit about Rugen dropping to the ground and dying, and Inigo gazing down upon his conquered enemy.

And then he let out a long, long, shaking sigh. Closed his eyes. And his shoulders sagged.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked him.

"Yes, yes of course," he murmured, keeping his eyes closed. "Of course I am."

"Are you tired?" She wondered, lifting a hand and touching the edge of the book, watching his face. He swallowed, and opened his eyes again.

"You look tired," she said. "I'm sure you're…Wait, why don't I…I'll get myself a drink, and you…I'll read the rest. Okay? There's just a bit left. I can manage now. If you want."

Sherlock just nodded.

"Okay…Okay, I'll…" Molly pushed the blankets off herself and got up, then hurried in her stocking feet into the kitchen. Sherlock sighed again, swallowed again. Then, wincing, he eased down onto his back, and laid his head on the armrest. But he kept his knees bent, to make room for Molly.

I heard a glass clink. I heard the tap run.

"Molly," Sherlock called, his eyes closed still.

"Yes?"

"Find my phone, would you," he said. "It's there on the counter. John turned it off when he went in to make dinner."

I ground my teeth. Didn't move.

"Oh…" Molly said. "Sure…" She brought it back in, along with a glass of water. "Do you…" She held it out to Sherlock. He stayed as he was.

"Turn it on," he instructed. "Find my list of contacts."

She did as he asked. The screen blinked on, lighting up her face.

"Okay…" she said again, frowning. "I have your contacts—"

"Scroll down," he said. "Find the one labeled '_Her_.'"

"Her?" Molly repeated, taking half a step back.

"Yes."

Molly gulped, and scrolled down.

"All right," she murmured. "Now what? Text her, too?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Delete it."

"Delete it?"

"Yes, Molly," he said firmly. "Delete that contact."

Molly stood still for a long while.

I bit down on my tongue.

Her.

Irene.

Molly looked at the phone, and touched a few buttons.

"All right, that's done," she said, looking a little pale around the lips. "You want to tell me what all this phone business is about?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Didn't open his eyes. Nothing.

Molly held the phone, looking back and forth between him and it a few times.

I felt her resolve teetering.

Finally, she set the phone down on the table, as well as the glass of water. She plopped down on the couch, tossed the blanket around herself, and picked the book up again. She sighed, and ran her hand through her loosened hair. She regarded Sherlock, to see if he was listening—but he had not opened his eyes yet, and lay with his hands folded on his chest. She sighed again, and started reading.

Reading about Westley and Buttercup's reunion in the castle, and their final confrontation with Humperdinck—which proved the prince a coward. At long last, Inigo found them as well, and so did Fezzik, who had happened upon enough white horses to carry them all to safety. And the four heroes rode out of the castle grounds, and across the green, free country of Florin.

Sherlock lay motionless throughout. I was all but certain he had fallen asleep.

_" 'It appears to me as if we're doomed, then,' Buttercup said." _Molly read tiredly, barely above a whisper.

_ "Westley looked at her. 'Doomed, madam?'_

_ 'To be together. Until one of us dies.'_

_ 'I've done that already, and I haven't the slightest intention of ever doing it again,' Westley said._

_ Buttercup looked at him. 'Don't we sort of have to sometime?'_

_ 'Not if we promise to outlive each other, and I make that promise now.'_

_ Buttercup looked at him. 'Oh my Westley, so do I.'"_

Molly sighed heavily again, glancing up at Sherlock. She massaged her throat, and closed the book.

"And they all lived happily ever after," she mouthed. And I could almost swear that weary tears filled her eyes. She disentangled herself from the blankets, slipped off the couch, and stood up. She gazed down at Sherlock's pale face for a long time, holding the book against her heart.

"Changed my mind," she muttered, bending and setting the book near his hip. "You can keep it."

"Molly."

She gasped. He was already looking at her. His eyes keen and bright against the dark circles beneath them.

"In actuality…" Sherlock said slowly, carefully. "Rather than give me the book, I would much rather you…" His left hand moved half a centimeter. "As tomorrow is Sunday, I would much rather you came round for tea, and brought it with you. We will force John to read it to us again, as he has missed more than half of the story." His fingers closed. "That is, if you do not have any other…more _pressing_…engagements."

Their gazes locked for an interminable time. Sherlock's eyebrows twitched together, and his jaw tightened.

My chest hurt.

Did she know—could she possibly know—what a _difficult _thing he had just done?

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but pray that she would say the right thing in answer…

But she didn't. She didn't _say _anything.

Instead, she reached down, and touched the back of his hand.

His hand moved—turned reflexively.

She slipped her hand into his, as if it fit there. Sherlock's fingers caught through hers—curled around them. And she squeezed.

He watched her earnestly. Silently.

She smiled. A surprised, broken smile.

"As you wish," she whispered unsteadily, and swallowed hard.

He said nothing. But I saw his thumb drift softly across the back of her hand.

She picked up the book, but kept hold of his fingers. Or—he kept hold of hers. They stood for a bit longer like this, until she stepped back, and their hands slipped out of each other.

"I'll…I'll see you tomorrow, then," she said. "Goodnight."

He didn't answer—but it took a moment for his hand to drift back down onto the blanket. Giving him one last, warm, happy look, Molly retrieved her coat and scarf, and disappeared down the stairs.

Slowly, Sherlock folded his hands on his chest again, and closed his eyes.

Silence fell.

"Well, John?"

I jumped, snorting inadvertently. Then, I wanted to curse at him. But I didn't.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

I stared at him, then stifled a broad grin. I had to be honest. I couldn't help it anymore.

"You…" I shook my head once, then again. "You don't deserve her. You just…don't."

He settled his shoulders.

"As always, John," he smirked lightly. "You are right."

I shoved my covers off myself, stood up and stretched my legs, keeping my glee entirely to myself. And, as I walked past him toward the kitchen to make myself some tea, I heard my friend give a deep, unlabored sigh…

And I saw him fall into a deep sleep.

FIN

_Thank you, thank you! Please review—I'd love to hear what you think, and if I should write in this fandom again!_


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